The call of gravity

In the beginning
there was an old couple
living
in a wooden
one room cottage,
with a red tile roof,
and an outhouse, decently apart,
on a large plot of land, with tall,
hundred year old pine trees,
in the middle of a modern suburb.

Smoke from their cooking fire
would curl up in the morning mist,
the old woman leaning on the stove
the man milking the goat,
or resting on the porch.
Some people
had the luxury
of fresh goat's milk
delivered to their apartments.


Then there was only the old man
and the goat.
Some tiles became loose
and needed replacement,
the paint of the wooden slats peeled
revealing the plaster walls.

One morning both
cottage and outhouse
were boarded up.
The goat was gone.

These past ten years
the pine trees, the birds
and the feral cats
are the sole owners
of this valuable plot of land.

The cottage sags,
first the roof of the porch;
any day now
it will kneel
in a last act of worship,
releasing to the earth
the need
to hold the world up.